Operation Moonlight Serenade
by highlandgypsy
Summary: The Black Sheep are facing a shortage of replacement parts for their aircraft and war correspondent Kate "K.C." Cameron finds herself swept into a caper to remedy the situation. It doesn't help that Greg won't answer any of her questions about the op and when things go awry, she finds herself one step ahead of disaster. Again.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I started writing this the day after Robert Conrad's death. Call it creative catharsis – a celebration of his life and reflection of the the enjoyment I found in watching him on screen. In 2015, I re-discovered the Black Sheep by accident, got hooked all over again and wrote "Front Page News" (later updated to "Front Page News: Second Edition.") It was the first fiction I'd written since college and I owe Robert for sparking the creativity that launched so many wonderful hours lost in re-creating my own director's cut of Baa Baa Black Sheep._

_Since then, I've written a number of other Black Sheep fanfics, and encouraged by readers' comments and the support of a group of creative writing friends, I finished the novel (not Black Sheep, sorry) I'd dreamed about writing for years. I'm in the process of finding an agent and having it published, which is easier said than done. If you know of a literary agent looking for story about a disillusioned woman who buys a haunted house, meets a guy, meets a ghost, solves the mystery of a missing body and learns to trust men again, please send him/her my way._

_In the meantime, I'm happy to present this farce in multiple acts. In theatre, a farce is a comedy that aims at entertaining the audience through situations that are highly exaggerated, extravagant, and thus improbable. Farce is also characterized by physical humor, the use of deliberate absurdity or nonsense, and broadly stylized performances. I think the shoe fits._

_This caper finds the Black Sheep and their embedded war correspondent, Kate "K.C." Cameron, pulling off a heist for the benefit of the squadron. If you're not familiar with Kate Cameron and have some time to kill (okay, a LOT of time to kill), read "Front Page News: Second Edition" (still posted on this site) to get the full story of how she ended up on Vella La Cava, and in Greg's bed._

_Reviews welcome. Enjoy._

**OPERATION MIDNIGHT SERENADE**

**Chapter 1**

**Autumn 1943**

**Vella La Cava**

**VMF 214 HQ**

"Hey, Cameron, I need your help." USMC Major Greg Boyington pushed through the mosquito netting into the cluttered tent of VMF 214's resident Associated Press war correspondent.

Kate "K.C." Cameron didn't look up from her battered Remington typewriter. The rough practicality of her cut-off fatigues and sleeveless man's work shirt only emphasized her slender curves and her sun-streaked hair was caught up off her neck in a loose knot. She clenched a pencil between her teeth in concentration as she typed with perfect composure, as if she were seated in any stateside newsroom, not a canvas-roofed field office on an island in the Pacific Theatre.

Kate fought to retain her concentration, which threatened to fly right out the door the second she heard Greg's voice. She wasn't entirely displeased by the interruption but she wasn't about to let him know that. "I need your help" were four damnably dangerous words, coming from him. The request could range from processing the squadron's recon film to joining his side in a volleyball game and a lot of things in between. It didn't pay to overthink any of it, especially the things in between.

Her fingers continued to tap out a steady cadence as she finished one sentence, then another. The story she was writing focused on the desperate need of replacement parts for the squadron's planes. Baling wire and beer cans only went so far and Greg's requisitions to Colonel Thomas Lard on Espritos Marcos had yielded less than one hundred percent approval in recent weeks.

In the meantime, wear and tear on the planes mounted while the Black Sheep continued their missions against well-trained Japanese pilots flying well-maintained aircraft. To make things worse, the 214 was experiencing an unusual drought when it came to their Scotch stockpile. This unfortunate lack of the liquid currency that lubricated so many of the unit's black market trade deals meant Andy Micklin and John "Hutch" Hutchinson were burning the candle at both ends, trying to keep the 214's birds in peak operating condition.

A timely story in the stateside papers would draw attention to the situation and eventually loosen Lard's stranglehold on the 214's supply line. It was a card Kate played from time to time and she was confident it would bring results. The problem was it might take several weeks for the top brass to push the appropriate requisitions through channels. The planes needed replacement parts now. Just this morning, Don French brought his bird home barely able to fly above the deck, thanks to a carburetor that had been rebuilt one time past its limit. He wasn't alone. Micklin started referring to several of the planes as "flying coffins," although he was careful not to say it when the pilots were within earshot.

Even with her back to the door, Kate was aware of Greg standing with his arms crossed as she poured her thoughts onto paper. She waited until she heard the barely imperceptible change in his breathing that meant his patience was nearing the breaking point, then pushed her chair back from the desk and turned to face him.

"You need my help doing what?" she asked. His easy smile triggered a number of red flags. Since her arrival on La Cava, Kate had made a study of reading Greg Boyington's body language. Initially she'd done it in self-defense. Greg had no love for the press corps. The fact she'd been assigned to the 214 by Colonel Lard automatically made her untrustworthy by association. Her first days with the unit had been spent walking the razor's edge to keep from getting herself booted onto the next transport back to Espritos Marcos. As time passed and the Black Sheep welcomed her into the fold, her continued study of their leader evolved to noticing the subtle cues that hinted at either chaos or sensuality.

Either way, watching the man operate was just plain enjoyable.

Now, the look in his eyes suggested something more involved than simply needing a ringer for a volleyball match. Oh lord, here we go again, Kate thought. It wasn't that she didn't want to help him - she was entirely helpless when it came to telling him no – but every time she got involved with a Black Sheep caper, the potential for blood and mayhem came in equal proportions.

"Something you're good at," Greg said. His tone put all her senses on alert. His voice was whisky rough, his words for her ears only in spite of the men laughing and shouting as they passed the tent just feet away. "I need you to be a distraction."

His eyes slid over her, lingered briefly on her legs and breasts, then came back to her face. If any other man had looked at her that way, Kate would have torn his head off. When Greg did it, she basked in the warmth of his gaze like a cat in a pool of sunshine. Still, a girl couldn't appear too easy. She tried to look like she wasn't having any of it but when he broke into a slow, dimpled grin, she felt her resolve crumbling. Again.

"What do you want?" she asked cautiously. _That_ was a loaded question.

The grin broadened.

Kate tried again, determined to get a clear answer. "Who needs distracting?"

"The Navy."

"Halsey's Third Fleet in general? Or do you have something more specific in mind?"

He chuckled but still didn't answer.

"Go up to the nurse's quarters to shower and change. Casey's already called ahead and Dee's got a dress lined up for you. She'll help you with your hair, too." His eyes traveled briefly over the loose curls escaping from her haphazard style. "Be back by 2100. You've got a date."

"A date? With who?" If Lieutenant Dee Ryan's services were required as fashion consultant and hair stylist, this sounded serious.

"Gutterman. When you get back, meet him at the south end of the flight line and head toward the beach."

"What the hell?" Kate wasn't sure if she should laugh at the insanity of this or dig in her heels and flat refuse. She chose the latter. "It's dark at 2100. I am not going to the beach with Jim in the dark. That's just asking for trouble."

"Exactly." Greg looked as if this explained everything.

Kate groaned.

Captain Jim Gutterman was one of Greg's two executive officers. He was endowed with a short temper and an ego as big as his native Texas. This combination caused no end of trouble, since like most of the Black Sheep, he was in continual pursuit of the female form. Kate had disabused him of the notion she would be his next conquest shortly after her arrival at the base. Jim's ill-fated pass while helping her in the tiny darkroom in the Sheep Pen had set her up for an unlikely friendship with Greg in spite of his reservations about the press corps. Since then, Jim teased her relentlessly but kept his hands to himself. That was partly because he knew she was serious when it came to threats of bodily harm and partly because she was, unarguably, Greg's girl now.

Complications with Jim aside, Kate wasn't agreeing to anything with such vague parameters. In her experience with the squadron, girls visiting the base with nice dresses and up-do's usually represented the unspoken expectation of a romantic evening.

She came up off her chair and closed the distance between herself and the Black Sheep's CO with two strides. Standing toe to toe, she tipped her head back and glared into the depths of his blue-green eyes. She planted one index finger squarely in the center of his chest and pushed.

"I am not going anywhere with Jim until you tell me what this is all about." Her blunt assertiveness was a skill she employed often and to good effect as a war correspondent. She ignored the fact that in the two months she'd been based on the island, it had a 100 percent failure rate with Greg.

"You don't take orders very well." He took her by the upper arms and stepped forward. Kate took an involuntary step back. There wasn't much room for maneuvering. Before she moved in, the VIP tent had served as a repository for the squadron's black market trade goods. That hadn't changed. In addition to her bunk and desk, the tent was crammed with crates of Spam, soap chips, silk stockings, two-ply toilet paper and several boxes labeled GRENADES that she fervently hoped were mismarked.

Most importantly, her tent was the repository for the third element, behind engine oil and fuel, that kept the squadron in the air: multiple cases of aged Scotch whisky. The liquid currency kept the wheels of commerce spinning as units across the Southwest Pacific transacted deals for their mutual benefit. The space usually occupied by the Black Sheep's stash was currently echoingly vacant. The last bottles had shipped out two weeks ago in exchange for desperately needed parts. To date, they hadn't been replaced and the battle-weary Corsairs were beginning to pay the price.

"I don't have to take orders from you." Kate took another step backward and ran up against a stack of crates containing tent canvas and cooking oil. Greg's hands slid down to her waist, pinning her with light but undeniable authority.

"As long as you're part of this unit, you answer to me, Cameron." His voice had gone dangerously low but she saw one corner of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile.

"Don't you dare pull rank on me. I'm civilian press and there's not a thing you can do about it." Kate knew she was losing ground fast. There were, in fact, quite a few things he could do about it.

She fought the sin of his hot blue gaze and clenched her fingers against the tarp-covered crate behind her. If she kept her hands off that hard muscled body, maybe this time she could say no. At least until she found out what he had in mind, then perhaps there would be room to negotiate her terms of surrender.

What she thought was a straight forward request for information was derailing at an alarming pace as Greg stepped closer to her. She realized she was caring less and less about why the Navy needed distracting, but made one more valiant attempt. "Tell me . . ."

He brushed his lips over hers in the barest whisper of a kiss.

Kate struggled to focus. " . . . why you need . . ."

His mouth moved to the curve of her jaw, leaving a trail of electricity sparkling across her skin.

She gave it one final try. " . . . to distract the Navy."

Greg's mouth lingered at the base of her neck and she gave up, tipping her head back to bare her throat to him. Her interest in the Navy vanished as she wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered.

His voice was barely audible against her skin. "Remember the shipment of supplies that dropped here last Thursday?"

Supplies. Right. With the heat of Greg's body against hers and the sensual roughness of his hands sliding under her shirt to caress bare skin, Kate could barely remember her own name. She vaguely recalled Hutch and Micklin being ecstatic, then despondent, when it was discovered the shipment was intended for a Navy unit on New Caledonia but delivered to La Cava in error.

"Mmmm." That was the best she could manage. Under the circumstances, she thought it was an exceptional effort.

"There are a dozen carburetors and two crates of mag points in that shipment. Brand new parts Hutch won't have to modify. Plus distributor caps, hoses, clamps and God knows what else." His mouth moved along her collarbone and back up her neck.

"Mmmm." He could have told her the crates contained the Holy Grail and gotten the same reaction.

As soon as they realized their error, the brass on Espritos immediately sent a four-man detachment to guard the materiel around the clock until it could be re-routed to its original destination. The brass on Espritos was entirely too familiar with the way items of value tended to disappear in the vicinity of the Black Sheep. Colonel Lard was no doubt losing sleep every minute those supply crates remained within shouting distance of the 214.

Between the war and the weather, it hadn't been possible to arrange for a transport. As a result, the parts and the truck they'd been loaded onto had been sitting near the air strip for nearly a week, guarded by alternating two-man shifts. Greg had ordered the Black Sheep to keep their distance and surprisingly, the truck and its contents had gone unmolested.

Greg's mouth brushed her ear. "We need those parts and they're free for the taking."

Kate didn't think something being guarded around the clock was quite the same thing as free for the taking but she wasn't in a position to argue. Greg's mouth found hers again and she took full advantage of the stolen moment. Their relationship had gone from adversarial distrust to cautious acceptance to a guarded friendship after Greg discovered she had no intention of discrediting the Black Sheep in the stateside newspapers. They'd been lovers for less than a month, their relationship forged in the flames of the war.

The kiss was showing the promise of more thorough involvement when the mosquito netting rustled and a tow-headed pilot stepped into the tent. The Black Sheep's complete disregard for privacy showed no sign of improving.

"Hey, Katie, Dee says she's found the perfect dress for – oh – damn – sorry." First Lieutenant Larry Casey did not look sorry. His boyish grin was completely unapologetic but he did have the courtesy to look away as Kate untangled herself, reluctantly, from Greg.

"Cameron was agreeing to help us," Greg said.

"Um. Yeah. Is that what you're calling it now?" Casey's grin grew wider.

Kate glared at him to no perceivable effect. The boys treated her largely like one of the guys, which meant her and Greg's relationship was subject to the same ribald teasing as any other of the squadron's romantic escapades.

"I don't remember agreeing to anything," she protested, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Casey and Greg both ignored her.

"Dee's off duty now. She'll help you get dressed and do your hair," Casey said and glanced at his wristwatch. "You'd better get going."

Kate narrowed her eyes. Clearly Greg hadn't approached her until the last minute so she wouldn't have time to balk. If time was of the essence, he knew she'd agree. But that didn't mean she wasn't done asking questions.

"Why do I need to get dressed up for this _date_?" She was getting a little concerned about the logistics of the plan even though she didn't know what they were.

"Because I don't want the guards on that truck to recognize you," Greg said. "As far as they'll be concerned, you'll just be a nurse from the hospital come to the base to see your sweetheart."

Kate gave him a complete _what the hell_ look.

As far as the guards were concerned, she'd been laying low for the last week. It wouldn't do for one of them to mention to someone higher up the food chain that a female reporter was working – and living – in the middle of VMF 214. She'd kept a painfully low profile since last Friday. Greg and the boys kept her updated on the unit's daily operations but she missed being in the thick of things. She realized, uncomfortably, that Greg's hazy request for her to be a _distraction _was starting to sound like an attractive respite from this temporary exile. Since the guards didn't know she existed in the first place, of course they would assume she was a nurse from the Navy hospital on the far end of the island. In a world fueled by testosterone, women on the island were quickly lumped into a single generic category – if you were female, you were a nurse. Except for Kate, but no one was pointing that out.

Her arrival on the island several months earlier had, indeed, been ordered by Colonel Lard. Lard, however, had no idea K.C. Cameron, the highly respected war correspondent he'd recruited to embed with the 214, was Katherine Christine Cameron. Once Greg discovered Kate's writing and photography skills were beneficial to the squadron's future, he and the boys launched an ongoing campaign to keep her presence a secret. General Thomas Moore knew Kate's true identity but he'd long ago resigned himself to not looking too closely at things that happened on La Cava.

The sound of boots and scuffling heralded the arrival of what Kate thought of collectively as the Bobbies – Anderson and Boyle. Casey said, "I'll tell Dee you're on your way," and left. The two dark haired pilots crowded in.

"Hey, Katie," Anderson called cheerfully. "We're here to collect that rum before you drink it all."

Kate blinked at the sudden change of topic. The cases of black island rum had been in her tent for so long she considered them a permanent fixture. They had arrived on La Cava before she did and seemed prepared to ride out the war there. Unlike most of Greg and Casey's carefully orchestrated black market trades, this one had not been moved forward to profit the squadron. No one from Bougainville to Guadalcanal wanted it.

"That rum is in no danger of anyone drinking it," she said.

The alcohol, which had been distilled into gallon jugs in an optimistic hope of large volume consumption, tasted like burned cane sugar and kicked like a Missouri mule. Not only did Kate not want it in spite of its availability, neither did anyone else. Given the Black Sheep's propensity for consuming any liquid containing a trace of alcohol, that was saying quite a bit. She had the feeling the liquor had been making its way around the theatre like the proverbial Christmas fruitcake that kept being re-gifted.

"It's all yours," she said, stepping out of their way. Anderson and Boyle made quick work of loading the cases onto the back of a jeep, then threw a tarp over it. Meatball, Greg's white bull terrier, perched happily atop the stack as the jeep disappeared.

"What are they doing with that?" she asked.

Greg shook his head. "Can't tell you."

"Does it have anything to do with what's going on tonight?"

"Maybe."

"If I'm part of this caper, I want to know."

"No."

She slanted him a look from under her lashes. She knew he wouldn't buy the blend of coy innocence for a minute but she was also fully aware of the effect it had on him.

"Stop that."

"Then tell me – "

"No." The late afternoon sunlight slanting into the tent brushed the square edge of his jaw with gold.

Kate knew it was hopeless but launched one final assault. "Where are they taking the rum? What's going to happen tonight? And why in God's name am I going on a date with Gutterman?" With a little time and privacy she knew she could work the information out of him but both of those commodities were in short supply.

"You ask too many questions."

"It's my job."

"I'm giving you a different job."

"You're a pain in the ass, Boyington."

He chuckled, then pulled her close and kissed her forehead. "You're right. But it's best you don't know anything. If we get caught, it'll mean court martial and I'm not dragging you into it. You're just an innocent bystander."

Kate thought Greg viewed anything with court martial potential as a personal challenge. "Fine. I'll go take a shower and put on a dress and go on a date with Jim. Maybe he'll tell me what's going on."

She shoved her feet into worn leather boots and tied the laces. Greg followed her out of the tent to a nearby jeep. Kate started the vehicle then paused, hand on the gear shift.

"You want something else, Cameron?" Greg held her eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if they'd met under civilian circumstances. They'd both fought the undeniable mutual attraction but time and circumstance escalated their relationship until it ignited with the force of a 500-pound incendiary dropped dead on target.

She shook herself back to the present. Yeah. She wanted a lot of things she wasn't likely to get any time soon but settled for taking the high road. "You know, one of these days I'm going to tell you no and mean it."

Greg chuckled. "You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

Kate gave it one more shot. "What am I supposed to do tonight? Besides put up with Gutterman?"

"You'll be fine. I've seen you in action."

Kate was starting to get a bad feeling about this. On La Cava, "You'll be fine" translated as "You may end up flying through the debris field but don't worry, we've got your six." She tried again. "Why Jim?"

Greg's grin was pure innocence.

"He was the first one who volunteered."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**2100 hours**

**Vella La Cava**

**VMF 214 HQ**

Kate downshifted the jeep and tried not to dwell on what the evening might entail. In spite of Greg's refusal to tell her any details he seemed confident she could handle it.

At least she'd look nice in the process, she mused. Her borrowed dress was a silky white and ivory affair printed with pink peonies. The daring neckline, combined with borrowed lingerie, put her breasts on what she thought was rather unnecessary display but Dee and the other nurses assured her she looked fit to play the part of a dazzling distraction. The borrowed high heels made it hard to drive. She would have kicked them off and driven back barefoot except it would have ruined the borrowed stockings. The only thing that was truly hers was her hair although she'd barely recognized herself after Dee and the other girls got done with her.

And she still didn't know what was going on. The nurses were as much in the dark as she was. Dee had shrugged her shoulders and said, "Casey wouldn't tell me anything. He just asked me to find something eye-catching you could wear on a date."

A date. Yeah. Whatever was going on, Kate was damned sure the evening's activity was not going to be anything resembling a date. She hoped fervently all that was required of her was to stand around and look ornamental. Between feeling like she was about to spill out of the dress or topple off the high heels, she doubted she could do much else.

To her right, the 214's flight line sprawled in the half-light of dusk. The line was unusually quiet this evening. In fact, she didn't see anyone there at all. That was odd. Master Sergeant Andy Micklin usually kept the mechanics working long into the night to put the Black Sheep's birds back together in time for the next day's mission. That was especially true now, with so many of the planes returning to base on a wing and a prayer.

To her left, a trailhead sloped through a tangle of palms and low scrub. Beyond lay the enticing expanse of the beach. Sheltered from the wind in the island's lee, the white sand and crystal blue water provided the closest thing to privacy the inhabitants of La Cava could find. The boys and the nurses put it to use in a variety of creative ways. It was absolutely the last place Kate intended to go in Jim's company but she had a feeling it wouldn't come to that. Greg's orders for her to meet Jim at the flight line had been too specific. The truck containing the mis-delivered shipment of parts was parked only fifty yards away. Coincidence? She thought not.

She eased the jeep past the cargo truck and waved at the bored looking master-at-arms sitting on the running board. He brightened and returned the wave, then watched with more than casual interest as she parked the jeep by the mechanic's shed nearby. Kate paused to pat at her hair and made an attempt at tugging up the dress's neckline. It refused to cooperate She wished she was here for a genuine date with Greg, not this clandestine meeting with his executive officer. If she were meeting Greg, she had the high probability of the dress coming off to look forward to. With Jim, she would be stuck in it for the duration of the evening.

She was aware of the guard watching with undisguised interest as she swung her legs out of the jeep. "In for a dime, in for a dollar," she muttered and paused, well aware the dress had ridden up above her knees. Careful not to snag the silk stockings, she maneuvered her way off the seat, then paused to tug her skirt back down. The second guard joined the first. She could feel their eyes on her like oily fingerprints.

She looked around. The mixed scents of aviation fuel and jungle foliage filled the warm air. She walked toward the flight line, elements slowly falling together like jigsaw puzzle pieces. The loaded cargo truck. The loitering guards. The absence of mechanics on the line. Greg's insistence she meet Jim at this specific location, dressed to the nines.

Distract the Navy, my sweet aunt, Kate thought. Distract them so he can steal them blind. But how did he intend to pull it off? Even if he got rid of the guards, the second those crates were discovered missing, the finger of blame would be pointed straight at the Black Sheep.

"Hey, darlin'!"

Kate turned to see a figure push off the wing of the nearest Corsair. Tall and lanky, Jim Gutterman was freshly showered, wearing a clean khaki uniform and a devil-may-care smile. A bottle of Scotch swung loosely from one hand as he sauntered across the packed ground to greet her.

"You look lovely this evening." His eyes lingered in places they shouldn't.

Kate glared at him and forced her hands not to tug at the dress's neckline. "I understand we have a date."

Jim offered her his arm. "Smile and act like you're enjoying it."

Kate plastered on a smile and linked her arm through his. They strolled a few steps.

"I think this would be more realistic if you kissed me," he said.

"In your dreams. What's going on?"

"You couldn't get it out of Greg? I'm surprised." Jim chuckled.

"I didn't have time," Kate said through gritted teeth. "But I imagine it involves stealing things."

"That's what the man does best." They paused under a palm tree and he lifted the bottle. "Drink?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "Where'd you get that? I thought Greg had the remaining inventory under lock and key."

"He does." Jim hoisted the bottle again. "This is a special occasion."

"You're not trying to get me drunk, are you?"

Jim snorted. "I know better than that." He passed her the bottle, which she accepted with caution. "No, we're just two lonely souls enjoying one another's company on a tropical evening. Don't look now, but Operation Moonlight Serenade is about to commence."

"Operation Moonlight Serenade?" Kate looked at him in disbelief. It was bad enough everyone but her seemed to think this was a grand lark. Now they'd named it?

"Anderson's idea." Jim jerked a thumb upward. A full moon was visible through the palm fronds above them.

Kate shifted her vantage point so she had a clear view of the cargo truck. As she watched, Greg strolled down the track. He slapped one of the guards congenially on the shoulder. His voice carried on the warm evening air.

"Son, you've been doing a fine job guarding this truck for the Navy all week but that's thirsty work in this heat. How about you come into the Sheep Pen for a drink? Your partner can watch the truck for a bit. These supplies aren't going to walk off by themselves."

"I don't know, sir," the guard hesitated. "Colonel Lard warned us not to fraternize with your unit."

Greg made a dismissive gesture. "I don't see Colonel Lard around here, do you? Who's going to tell him? The transport will be here tomorrow morning, your job is done." He nodded at the other man. "Soon as the second shift gets here, you come in for a glass, too."

The younger man wavered. "I hear you boys have top shelf Scotch."

"Absolutely." Greg's grin invited good-natured camaraderie. "It's not polite to turn down a commanding officer's invitation, son. Let's just call it an evening of fellowship between men serving Uncle Sam."

Kate thought if he shoveled it on any thicker, a brass band would start playing the _Star Spangled Banner_ and American flags would unfurl from the palm trees.

"Go ahead," the second guard said. "Nothing going on out here but those two love-birds." He jerked his head toward Jim and Kate, who made a show of passing the bottle back and forth between them.

Greg disappeared toward the Sheep Pen with the younger guard in tow.

"Pappy will have him drunk as a skunk on Sunday," Jim said approvingly. "One down, one to go."

"He's going to steal everything in that truck, isn't he?" Kate realized this wasn't a big surprise.

"Not steal, not exactly. More like a trade," Jim replied.

"Oh, lord. That rum! He's going to take the parts and fill the empty crates with bottles of rum!"

"Yepper," Jim said.

Kate groaned. "Does he really think he can pull that off?"

"What do you think?" Jim chuckled. "You know what he's like when he gets an idea in his head."

Kate had the decency to blush. Some of Greg's ideas were decidedly more attractive than others. But stealing a whole truckload of parts from right under the Navy's nose? This had disaster written all over it.

"Who's involved?" she asked.

"Everyone. All the boys and most of the ground crew."

Kate watched as TJ Wiley trotted up the steps and into the Sheep Pen. A few minutes later, Greg exited and disappeared.

"Now what's he doing?" Kate asked, confused. "I thought he was going to drink that guy under the table."

"Nah." Jim shook his head. "TJ's in charge of hospitality this evening. Greg just invited that guard in for a drink because he knew the kid wouldn't refuse him. He'll have made up some excuse to leave and TJ'll take it from here."

Kate stared at him, things becoming clearer by the minute. "Greg wouldn't ask the boys to do anything he wouldn't be in the middle of himself," she thought out loud. "If they get caught stealing Navy property, he'll take the charges and say they were just were following his orders."

"Yepper."

Kate groaned. Not even General Moore's intercession could get them out of the mess that would result if this went south. "So why are we out here?"

"We're gonna get rid of the second guard so the boys can get the truck unloaded. They'll have the crates emptied, refilled and back on the truck before the second guard shift gets here at 2300."

Kate thought getting rid of Guard Two sounded ominous and said as much.

"Nothing permanent," Jim assured her, "just a temporary inconvenience on his part. Pappy figured me and you were the best situated to create a distraction."

"Exactly what kind of distraction did he have in mind?" She was getting the feeling this might require more than flashing a little leg and standing around looking like a pin-up girl.

"What do you think?" Jim's eyes twinkled and he gave her a friendly leer.

Kate glared at him. He really didn't want to know what she thought. "Greg said you were the first one to volunteer for this."

Jim's eyes drifted up and down her figure again. "Blame me, darlin'?"

* * *

Screened from view by the thick jungle undergrowth, Greg watched as Kate again linked her arm through Jim's. The couple began to stroll toward the trail head leading toward the beach. Even at this distance, he could read their expressions and smiled. Jim looked like he was in his element, while Kate radiated reluctant tension.

Greg trusted his executive officer with Kate, both to pull off their end of the mission, as well as to keep her out of harm's way if things went south, not that the girl would ever admit she needed keeping out of harm's way. Even though she and Jim mixed like oil and water, she was a Black Sheep through and through. He had no doubt she'd excel in her assigned role.

"Get ready," he said in a low voice. "The fireworks are about to start."

Behind him, Master Sergeant Andy Micklin chomped his cigar and muttered, "You sure that college boy and Miss Kate can pull this off? What if that guard don't care about no romantic dust up and just looks the other way? Then I'm stuck out here in the bushes twiddling my thumbs with my mechanics pulled off the line and no work gittin' done. Them planes ain't gonna fix themselves by tomorrow."

"You don't have the parts to fix those planes unless we pull this off so quit your bitchin'," Greg said. "She'll make sure she gets the guard's attention." Then he added, "She's hard to ignore."

Bobby Boyle turned an outburst of laughter into a muted cough. "I almost feel bad for Gutterman," he said. "Almost."

"Hell, he volunteered," Bobby Anderson pointed out. "The mission does have its appeal. With all due respect, Pappy."

"Shut up," Greg said. "Let's run this again. TJ's pouring Scotch into the first guard in the Sheep Pen. That guy's not going anywhere. Soon as Jim and Kate take out the second guard, it's go time. Bragg, you and Anderson get in the back of the truck and start offloading crates. Gutterman will make sure Kate gets clear, then he'll get back here to help finish emptying the truck. French, Casey and Boyle will pull the contents out and Hutch and his boys will carry everything out to the line. We'll re-load the crates with those bottles of rum, then put everything back the way we found it. Casey and I did the calculations - the weights match up perfectly. No one will notice anything until the boys on New Caledonia open those boxes and by then, the parts will be in our birds with no way to trace them."

Casey looked concerned. "What happens if Jim can't take out the second guard? He's a pretty stout-looking fellow."

Greg rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, I thought about that but the only way I could get the younger guy off that truck was if the older guard stayed with it." He shrugged. "Jim will do fine. If he doesn't, that's where Kate comes in. She's the wild card." He wasn't entirely sure how she'd feel about that classification but it was too late to do anything about it now.

* * *

"Are you ready?" Jim asked softly. Kate heard the tension in his voice. The future of the squadron was riding on what happened in the next hour. Without replacement parts, Hutch and Micklin couldn't keep 15 birds in the air and if that happened, Lard wouldn't waste any time taking the Black Sheep down.

Jim squeezed her hand. "It's about time you and me have us a little lovers' quarrel. That anchor clanker over there will step in to defend your virtue, run into my fist and not wake up for a good long time."

Kate shot him a look. "That guy's no lightweight, Jim. He's shorter than you but he's got at least 30 pounds on you. What if you can't take him?"

Jim cast a sideways look at the remaining guard. "Size only matters if you know how to use it." He set the bottle against the tree trunk. Straightening, he slapped Kate's backside. "Here we go. Play your part, darlin'."

"Don't you '_darlin'_ me!" she snapped, then raising her voice, added, "You stop that! I thought you were a gentleman." It wasn't hard to put extra indignity into her voice and she made sure the words carried. She jerked her arm free of Jim's grip and wheeled toward the cargo truck. She wobbled slightly, cursing the borrowed heels.

Jim easily caught her and closed one hand around her upper arm. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw the remaining guard shift to watch the tableau.

"Aw, come on. I know a place we can be alone." Jim's words hung on the humid South Pacific air as if daring her to deny him. "Can't blame a guy when you show up lookin' so fine. We'll have us a night to remember."

"I said no and I mean it!" Kate's words were firm but she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Jim glanced toward the truck, then lowered his voice. "Then you need to be a little louder about it. From what Greg's told me, that shouldn't be a problem."

Kate narrowed her eyes and glared at him through the twilight. "Greg hasn't told you anything and we both know it," she hissed.

"Give it your best shot." More loudly, Jim added, "Take off those stockings and come down to the beach with me. I'll make it worth your time." He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Kate rolled her eyes. "All right, don't say you didn't ask for it," she muttered. She took a deep breath, then said, "I'm _not_ that kind of girl, Captain, and I'm not doing _that_, no matter how much I've had to drink. I insist you take me back to the hospital right this minute!"

"And what if I don't?"

"You get your hands off me, you . . . you . . . skirt-chasing armadillo hugger!" She faked a struggle but Jim held tight to her upper arm.

He turned his face away from the guard. "Armadillo hugger? Really, Katie, is that the best you've got?"

"I'm just getting warmed up." She took a deep breath and shouted, "Listen, flyboy! Let go of me this instant or I'll have you brought up on charges. Lieutenant Commander Delmonte will hear about this and you won't see the outside of the brig until this war's over!" She staged an elaborate struggle to break free but Jim's grip on her arm was firm.

The sound of footsteps running in their direction grew louder and Kate gave Jim a brief smile of triumph before adopting a mask of feminine distress.

The master-at-arms she'd waved at before appeared out of the tropical night.

"Is there a problem?" he asked. "Ma'am, is this Marine bothering you?" He looked at Kate with concern. Jim's fake grip on her arm had tightened in the heat of the moment and the wince of pain across her face was real.

"Yes!" she said at the same time Jim snarled, "No. And this ain't none of your business, you nosy idiot, so shut your pie hole."

"Who are you calling an idiot?" The guard bristled. He was shorter than Jim but built like a bull. Kate saw both men's body language shift and knew where this was going. Her peripheral vision detected faint movement in the undergrowth near the truck and she pointedly looked away. Once again, she tried to pull free but Jim held tight.

The guard flexed his hands. "Let go of the lady, jarhead. I'm gonna teach you a lesson in manners."

"You're gonna teach me a lesson? I don't think so." Jim let go of Kate. He winked and pushed her out of the way. "You wait just a minute, darlin', and we'll have us a good time yet. Let me knock some sense into this squid first."

To his credit, Jim didn't take the first swing. Unfortunately, he didn't take the last one either. The guard was surprisingly light on his feet and landed a series of punches that left Jim on the defensive. The guard drove him back against the trunk of a palm tree before the Texan rallied. Fists pounded flesh, punctuated by grunts and curses. She dared a look toward the truck. The canvas flap fluttered as a large wooden crate emerged. It was grasped by waiting hands and disappeared into the jungle.

Kate refocused on the brawl in front of her in time to see Jim launch an aggressive volley of blows. For a minute, she thought his height advantage and experience had gained the upper hand but his opponent was no stranger to bare knuckle scrapping. Kate winced as a haymaker caught Jim across the jaw, snapping his head back, and he went down hard. Her wince turned to alarm when he sprawled in the dirt and didn't move.

Bloody fucking hell, she thought. The brawl was supposed to end with Jim taking the guard out of commission, not the other way around. She couldn't let the guard return to his post at the truck. If he'd been cooperatively unconscious, she and Jim would have drug him off to some nice, out of the way spot to regain consciousness – like the other side of the island.

The guard dropped to his knees, breathing hard but with a look of vindication on his face. He wiped blood from under his nose with the back of his hand.

"There now, miss, he won't bother you anymore." He glanced at Kate and mis-read her stricken look. "Oh, don't you worry about him," he continued. "When he comes around, maybe the two of you can talk things through. Although I don't know what a nice girl like you is doing with – "

The guard never got to express his opinion on Kate's dating habits. Stepping forward under the guise of concern for Jim, she picked up the nearly full bottle of Scotch and brought it down on the back of the man's head. It made a solid clunk as it connected with his skull and he collapsed without a word.

Kate knelt and checked Jim's pulse. It was strong and steady. She slapped his cheek.

"Jim? Jim!" He showed no sign of coming around. She slapped him harder. No response. "Hey! Gutterman, wake up! I need you." She rolled her eyes. If that didn't bring him around, nothing would. But it was to no avail. He remained out like a light.

Reluctantly, she left him and checked the guard. Good lord, what if she'd killed the man? She'd been in a few bar fights before but she'd never knocked anyone out. She exhaled in relief when she felt the rhythm of his heartbeat under her fingers.

She stood and looked around. It was full dark now but the moon washed the base in silver light. She could see dark shapes swarming around the truck, punctuated by low murmurs of conversation and the scrape of wood as the crates were unloaded.

Kate shifted uneasily in her heels. Would Guard Two remain unconscious long enough for the boys to get the truck unloaded, then re-loaded? What was she going to do if he didn't? Maybe Jim would come around soon and they still could haul him off. If the guard woke up to find himself stuffed in a tree behind the outdoor showers, he'd never admit to being bested by a Marine Corps pilot and a nurse. The fellow would slink back to camp and come up with another story to cover his tracks.

In the distance, headlights blazed and Kate's breath caught in her throat. It couldn't be much before 2200. With the Black Sheep and ground crew still scrambling to unload the truck, the headlights could only mean one thing - the second shift guards were arriving early. Damn Navy efficiency all to hell.

Behind her, someone groaned. Oh good, Jim was coming around. She turned. Jim was still out cold but she saw with horror that Guard Two was starting to stir. For half a second, she considered hitting him again. She looked toward the cargo truck. The boys faded into the underbrush as the jeep's engine grew louder. There were no other sounds except the hum of night insects.

Had Greg and the boys gotten all of the precious cargo spirited away? How long would it take for them to make the exchange? The second shift would immediately be suspicious when their colleagues didn't appear to greet them. The first shift guard Greg had lured away must have succumbed to TJ's hospitality in the Sheep Pen. The time it took to have "just one drink" was long past.

From what Jim told her, Greg was counting on having the truck reloaded before the shift change, but with Jim out like a light, Guard Two coming around and the second shift arriving early, Kate realized the wheels had completely fallen off. She'd have to keep Guards Three and Four occupied until she heard the all clear. It occurred to her she had no idea what the all clear signal was. What had Jim called this? Operation Moonlight Serenade? She liked Glenn Miller as much as the next person but this was ridiculous. Distracting one guard was all fine and good but what the hell was she going to do with three of them?

The oncoming jeep halted by the truck and two uniformed men jumped out.

"We came early to relieve you," one of them called out. "Did you hear the news – they cut orders for us to load this stuff out at 0700 tomorrow and then we can get off this God-forsaken rock. Hey – Calhoun, Jackson! Where are you guys?"

No one answered.

Behind her, Guard Two groaned loudly and started to sit up. Kate made a split-second decision. Standing tall, she stepped into the glare of the headlights. Even at 50 yards, the light was blinding and she put a hand in front of her face. She paused long enough to see Guards Three and Four's heads swivel toward her. She gave them time to notice the two bodies on the ground, then bolted for the shadows of the flight line.

"What the? Hey! You there! Stop!" one of them called.

Kate didn't stop. As she sprinted through the darkness, she was reminded of something her mother once said. "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, just backwards and in high heels." Dancing backwards in heels would be a piece of cake compared to running over uneven ground in them. She had no idea where she was going and prayed she didn't turn an ankle before she got there. This game of cat and mouse depended on staying one step ahead, drawing the guards away from the truck. She dared a glance over her shoulder. One of the men knelt by the fallen guard and shouted to his partner.

"Calhoun says that girl cracked him over the head after he punched her boyfriend for being a jerk. I think he might have a concussion. I'm taking him to the hospital. You go find that girl." The man looked at Jim's fallen form. "That guy isn't going anywhere soon."

"Shouldn't someone stay with the truck?" Guard Four shouted back. "Where's Jackson?"

"Calhoun says Jackson went to have a drink with the unit's CO but that was over an hour ago. That kid never could hold his liquor. Don't worry about the truck. Base seems pretty quiet tonight. If those damn dumb Marines haven't stolen anything by now, they're not going to. Get that girl. She's got some questions to answer."

Kate heard footsteps pounding in her direction and started running again. Guard One was most likely drunk off his ass in the Sheep Pen. Guard Two clutched his head as he lurched woozily back to the jeep, supported by Guard Three. That only left Guard Four to elude and draw away from the truck. Boyle would tell her the odds were getting better. Boyle would probably put money on her, too. The thought was oddly comforting.

She ducked under the wing of a nearby plane, careful not to crack her head and started to edge around the tail assembly. The white and cream satin of the dress shimmered in the moonlight. Even in the dark, she stood out like a starlet on the silver screen. If she could slip into the thicker foliage edging the base, she could get back to her tent, change clothes and take stock of how things stood.

If she'd had any breath left in her lungs, she would have shrieked when a muscular arm snaked out of the night and hauled her backward into the shadows.

\- To be continued -


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**2200 hours**

**Vella La Cava**

**VMF 214 HQ**

**Flight line**

Kate opened her mouth to scream as muscular arms pulled her into the deeper shadows, then shut it again. She didn't dare make noise for fear of attracting the guard pursuing her but she didn't want her abductor to think she was going willingly. She tensed herself for a fight when a familiar voice whispered in her ear.

"Katie! It's me, Hutch."

She sagged with relief. He set her back on her feet and she doubled over, gasping for air.

"What are you doing here?" Hutch looked perplexed. "I just carried in a load of parts and saw you running like someone was chasing you."

"Someone _is_ chasing me." Kate straightened. "The second guard on the truck laid Jim out cold so I cracked him over the head with a bottle but then the second shift got here early and they saw me standing over two bodies like a serial killer. One of them took the guy I hit to the hospital but the fourth guard is after me."

"Relax." Hutch's voice was one of calm reassurance. "Greg has it under control."

Kate doubted that very much. If the situation were truly under control, she'd be sitting in his tent, enjoying a night cap with Meatball snuggled on her lap.

She glanced around. "Greg has no idea what's going on. I know that guard saw me run this way. I can't let him catch me but I can't let him go back to the truck, either." As she spoke, she heard heavy footfalls on packed earth drawing nearer. "That doesn't sound like under control – that sounds like me getting arrested for assaulting Navy personnel." She looked around, half frantic. "I need a place to hide and you need to get out of here."

The mechanics' shed was the closest building. It was also the only building. To get there, Kate would have to run across an open expanse of ground. Even if she made it inside undetected, the interior offered no good hiding places and the guard would surely check there. She might as well just come out with her hands in the air.

Hutch grabbed her wrist and pointed at the nearest Corsair. _Lieutenant French_ was stenciled in white letters below the open canopy. "Come on." He dashed around the tail assembly and Kate followed.

"Climb up," he said, then added, "but take your shoes off first."

"Afraid I'll scratch the paint?"

Hutch rolled his eyes.

Kate yanked at the straps of the open-toed sandals and kicked them off. There was a moment's awkwardness as she attempted to leap onto the wing. The dress restricted her legs and she swore under her breath.

"Give me a leg up!" she whispered. Hutch linked his hands together and Kate stepped into his palms. He boosted her up and she scrambled onto the wing, then stretched her toes to find the footholds. She'd watched Greg and the boys do this so many times, their motions were imprinted on her subconscious. Of course, they were all taller than she was, even Bobby Boyle, and no one had ever asked them to do this in a dress and silk stockings. She gritted her teeth and hiked her skirt up, showing a long stretch of garter-trimmed thigh. She'd long ago abandoned all but the most essential modesty around the Black Sheep. The boys might look but they wouldn't touch.

Below her, Hutch gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Damn, Katie."

"You behave yourself, John Hutchinson," she hissed.

A warm chuckle from the darkness below was his only response.

She'd climbed into the cockpit of a Corsair the second day she'd been on La Cava, when Greg had been determined to catch her out as little more than an attractive nuisance. That sunny afternoon she'd been in trousers and boots. Now, with moonlight casting the base in silver, her toes slipped precariously and she nearly lost her footing. She grabbed the edge of the cockpit, regained her balance and swung in.

"Your shoes!" She turned in the seat as Hutch tossed the heels up to her. She caught them just as the guard's figure appeared.

Hutch melted into the shadows and Kate slid into the plane's footwell, certain she was out of sight of anyone on the ground. She held her breath.

"Who's there?" the guard called out. "Show yourself. I know you're out here."

To her horror, a generator hummed to life and lights blazed overhead. She heard Hutch's off-key whistling, then he said gruffly, "What do you want? This area's off limits to everyone but ground crew."

"I'm looking for a woman." The guard's voice was clipped.

"Ain't we all?" Hutch's words were accompanied by the rattle of a toolbox.

"She's wearing a white dress, got legs that won't quit. She assaulted a member of my detachment."

Hutch's snort expressed his skepticism. "Sounds like quite a girl. Have you checked the Sheep Pen? The ladies don't hang out here much."

"You mind if I have a look around?"

"Be my guest." Further clanking of tools indicated Hutch was settling in for a night's work on French's aircraft.

Footsteps scuffled around the plane. A trickle of sweat ran down Kate's back. Any sounds she might make would be covered by Hutch banging around but she barely dared to breathe.

A few minutes later, the guard called out, "I'm going to check further down the line. Can you put on any more lights?"

"Nope," Hutch answered cheerfully. "Line chief's orders – no lights except in the immediate work area. I'd catch hell from Micklin." He continued banging on the gun mounts under French's plane.

Kate heard the guard's angry grumbling, then the tread of departing boots and finally, silence. Hutch stopped doing whatever he was doing. He whispered her name and she dared a peek over the canopy track.

"I gotta get back to help the boys," he said and tossed a salute. "Take care of yourself." He disappeared. A minute later, the lights went off and Kate was left alone in the dark.

* * *

In a small clearing 75 yards into the jungle behind the air strip, Greg allowed himself to think they were actually going to get away with this. He admitted the plan had been shaky but that's how things went in war. No matter how carefully an operation was planned, nothing came with a one hundred percent guarantee. Every checkpoint they passed now without interference was one step closer to wrapping a successful mission. The crates had been unloaded, carried into the jungle and emptied. The mechanics would soon begin a full-scale migration of the parts to the line for immediate installation into the squadron's planes. Hutch had just gone to scout the line for any Navy activity. Greg didn't expect any, since Jim and Kate would have easily pulled off their end of things by now, but better safe than sorry.

He checked his watch. Where the hell was Gutterman? He was supposed to report back here after he and Kate disposed of the second guard. That shouldn't have taken long. He knew Kate would be properly scandalized when Jim proposed an evening on the beach. The resultant explosion would have distracted the most dedicated guard. He thought, with a chuckle, if he proposed the same thing, she'd give him that demure look that wasn't fooling anyone and add a few suggestions of her own.

Once they'd knocked out the guard, Greg had told Jim to order Kate to go back to the nurses' quarters and stay there. In hindsight, that may have been a lapse in judgment. Kate barely listened to orders from him. She wouldn't give Jim the time of day, especially if she thought she could still be of help by staying on the base. He shrugged it off. That was Jim's problem. No doubt he'd get an ear full from both of them later.

He scanned the shadows beyond the clearing. Moonlight filtering through the foliage overhead cast the space in a patchwork of light and dark. The cargo truck sat in unguarded silence.

"How are you guys doing?" Greg asked, turning back toward the men working behind him.

"Another twenty minutes and we'll be done," Don French said. He swaddled layers of gauze liberated from the hospital around a thick glass jug of island rum. It wouldn't do for crates' contents to start clinking when they were loaded onto the transport in the morning. Casey and Anderson packed the cushioned jugs back into the wooden boxes and Jerry Bragg sealed the lids, carefully tapping the nails back into the same holes they'd come out of.

They all jumped when Hutch burst through the undergrowth.

"Pappy, Kate's holed up in French's plane," the mechanic reported. "She said Jim got flattened by the guard, but she hit him over the head with a bottle and knocked him out. The relief shift showed up early and now one of them's after her but I don't know where he went or if she'll stay put."

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. There were entirely too many pronouns in that sentence but he caught the general drift. He'd been kidding himself to think this heist would go off without a hitch.

"Kate hit the guard? Or Jim?" he asked. Both were entirely possible. And with a bottle? The girl was resourceful, if not mildly violent.

"The guard. But he was coming around when the second shift showed up. One of them took the guy she hit to the hospital but the other one is still out there. He's after Kate but soon as he finds her – or gives up – he'll be right back on that truck."

"Is TJ still pouring drinks into the guard in the Sheep Pen?"

"Yeah," Hutch replied. "I heard them singing. Well, TJ was singing. The guard was kind of howling. Or maybe that was Meatball."

"Go keep an eye on the guy in the Sheep Pen. Send TJ out to the line to help Kate." Not that she was going to appreciate his presumption she needed help, Greg thought, but he couldn't leave her out there like a sitting duck. TJ was better suited to the kind of covert dealings the evening might still require than Hutch, who was entirely too honest. "Tell TJ he and Kate need to run interference for another 20 minutes and we're clear." Kate was going to have a piece of his hide for this night, he thought, then grinned. Hell, he was counting on it.

* * *

Kate considered making herself comfortable in the footwell and staying there until the dust settled on this insane caper but decided against it. She didn't fancy encountering Guard Four and explaining why she'd cracked his colleague over the head with a bottle of single malt but until that truck was reloaded and the Black Sheep safely away, her job wasn't done. She'd figure it out as she went. Flying by the seat of her pants was becoming second nature.

She needed to change clothes first. When the second shift guards arrived, she'd held her hand in front of her face to keep from being blinded by the headlights and as a result, she was sure neither Guard Three or Four could identify her beyond her clothing. Guard Two had seen her face but even if he ordered all the nurses in the hospital into a line-up, he'd never find her because she simply wouldn't be there.

She desperately needed to shed the dress but running around in her lingerie was not an option. If she could get closer to the base, she could make a raid on one of the boys' footlockers. Casey and Bragg's tent was nearest the line and neither of them would begrudge her a T-shirt. She shifted in the tight space and peeled off her garters and stockings. It was an awkward process when done in the dark by oneself and, she thought, one that would have been much more enjoyable if Greg had been involved.

Kate was working up the nerve to leave her sanctuary to find more suitable clothing when she froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. They stopped near French's plane. She held her breath. Was Guard Four still lurking nearby? Had he heard her snarl of frustration when a stubborn garter refused to yield?

"Katie?" The whisper only feet away made her jump. She banged her head on the control panel.

"Ouch! Damn it, TJ!" She crawled up to kneel in the seat and look out. "What are you doing here?"

"Greg sent me to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine. Are the crates back on the truck yet?"

"No. The guys need another 20 minutes. You know there's still a guard prowling around? I dodged him twice on my way out here."

"Yeah, I know." Kate was relieved to have TJ's company. She wasn't sure how much help he'd be as a wing man but it was better than flying solo. "We have to keep him away from that truck."

"We?" TJ sounded doubtful.

"Yes. We," Kate said firmly. "He'll go straight back there if he stops looking for me."

"We?" TJ said again. "I was just supposed to get a guy drunk in the Sheep Pen. I don't remember volunteering for this part."

"You didn't. You've been volun-told, just like me," Kate said, although Greg's form of persuasion had been much more enjoyable than her brusque drafting of TJ's assistance.

"Do you need help getting down?" TJ seemed resigned to his fate.

Kate thought she was perfectly capable of exiting the cockpit on her own. All she had to do was make sure her skirt wasn't caught on anything and jump. It wasn't that far. She'd seen the guys do it a thousand times. She peered over the edge. TJ stood in the shadows.

"Come on, I'll catch you." He raised his arms.

Tossing modesty to the wind - again - Kate hiked up her skirt again and swung over the edge. She lowered herself part way and felt TJ's hands close around her waist. He set her respectfully on the ground.

"Greg set up a bucket brigade of guys to get the reloaded crates back on the truck," he said quietly as she adjusted her skirt. "The mechanics are helping so it shouldn't take long. Aw, damn it, here comes that guard."

If the ground crew was helping the Black Sheep, that explained why the line was so deserted. Kate looked around. Nearby, the mechanics' shed loomed silent and dark. She could hear the approaching footsteps and the guard grumbling about women being nothing but trouble.

"Can't believe Calhoun let a broad get the best of him," the man muttered. A flashlight beam skittered around Anderson's plane, which sat two away from French's. "She still can't be out here. Waste of time looking for her. Damned Marines. Damned women. All of 'em up to no good." The guard continued with a litany of complaints.

Kate grabbed T.J.'s hand. "Come on, I've got an idea."

Running silently through the moonlight, they ducked into the shadowy interior of the mechanics' shed. The smell of oil and aviation fuel permeated the air.

"Unzip me," Kate said, "then give me your shirt." She spun around to present her back to T.J., who stared in stunned surprise. "Now! If we don't stop that guy, he'll march straight back to that truck and catch the boys red handed."

TJ swallowed hard, then yanked down the zipper on the back of Kate's dress without a word. She started to shimmy out of it, then hissed, "Turn around! And give me your shirt!"

She heard the sound of fabric being hastily unbuttoned and then TJ said, "Here." He tossed the shirt blindly at her and she caught it, letting go of the dress at the same time. Pity. It had been a lovely dress and its original owner was unlikely to ever see it again. The sheer fabric puddled around her ankles as she pulled on the khaki uniform shirt. Fortunately, TJ was considerably taller than she was and his shirt tails fell past mid-thigh. She rolled the cuffs, left the top two buttons unfastened and turned to face him.

He blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Kiss me," she said. TJ looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Just enough to smudge my lipstick," she added hastily.

TJ took a step back. "Katie, Greg will kill me if I do that."

Kate took a step forward. "Maybe you'd rather be caught and court martialed?"

TJ looked like he was seriously considering the merits of that option. Kate glared at him. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a plutonic smooch on the lips.

"That can't possibly have done the trick," she said. "You kissed me like I was your grandmother. Do it like you mean it. This has to look authentic."

"All right. Can't say I haven't dreamed about this." TJ's voice trailed off as he complied. It was the most determinedly chaste kiss Kate had ever experienced, though not without its merits. When TJ began to enjoy it more than she thought necessary, she broke it off.

"Okay, how do I look?" she asked.

TJ wiped a hand self-consciously across his mouth. "Like Greg's going to kill me if he finds out."

"Extenuating circumstances," she said briskly. "I'm sure he'll understand."

"I think what happens on the flight line should stay on the flight line," TJ muttered. "Although I may have to tell Gutterman about this."

"Do that at your own risk," Kate said. She picked up the dress and hastily tossed it into the first available hiding place, Micklin's ever-present tank of used motor oil. She bit her lip as the delicate fabric sank out of sight in the sludge. With a silent apology to Laura, the nurse who'd loaned her the garment, she turned back to T.J. "We haven't seen anything, haven't heard anything, we're just out here, on, um, a tryst."

TJ looked skeptical. "In here?"

"Beggars can't be choosers. Don't tell me you haven't taken advantage of any place on this base where you can find a little privacy."

He grinned sheepishly and started to say something.

Kate cut him off. "I don't want to hear about it."

The guard's footsteps were coming closer. She flung her arms around TJ's neck. His correspondingly went around her waist. She let out a deliberately husky laugh that trailed off into a suggestive giggle. The footsteps stopped, then changed direction, now approaching with purpose.

"Just work with me, okay?" she said. TJ broke into a grin. He reached up and tugged a few pins out of her hair so it tumbled loose.

"If we're, um, having a tryst, your hair should be mussed up, too," he said apologetically. "Greg really is gonna kill me for this. I should probably request a transfer."

She was saved from replying as a flashlight beam temporarily blinded her. Her shriek was half act, half real.

"What the hell!" TJ snapped. He dropped his hands from Kate's waist and stepped in front to shield her. "What's the meaning of this!"

"I could ask you the same, sir," the guard replied. "What are you two doing out here? I was told this area was off limits to anyone but ground crew."

"That's none of your business," TJ snapped with uncharacteristic authority. "What are _you_ doing out here?"

Kate silently commended him for having the presence of mind to go on the offensive. Not bad for a guy who'd just been kissing his his CO's half-nude girl. If they didn't all end up in the brig before this was over, she might tell Greg the story. He'd appreciate a good con.

"I'm looking for a nurse wearing a white flowery dress," the guard said. "She's wanted in connection with an assault that occurred earlier this evening. Put a man in the hospital. I need her for questioning."

TJ folded his arms across his chest and let the fact Kate wasn't wearing a dress at all, let alone a flowery one, sink in.

The guard slowly reached that conclusion. "I reckon you two ain't seen anything except each other." He stared openly at the curve of Kate's breast, just visible through the loosely gaping shirt front. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, ma'am. Carry on." He sniggered and left.

TJ let out an audible sigh of relief.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Kate muttered. "How much more time do you think Greg and the boys need?"

TJ shook his head. "I'm not sure. My job was to make sure the first guard enjoyed the Sheep Pen hospitality until he couldn't see straight. Then Hutch showed up and sent me out here to make sure you were all right."

"Thanks," Kate said. She appreciated the sentiment although she wasn't sure if TJ's arrival made things better or worse. At least they'd kept the guard away from the truck so far. "We'd better get out of here. That guy was just creepy enough I bet he'd sneak back thinking he'd get a free peep show. We need another distraction to keep him busy."

Something warm and furry brushed against her bare leg and Kate jumped. "Meatball!"

The terrier leaned affectionately against her as she bent to scratch his ears.

"What are you doing!" TJ whispered. "He'll attract attention. Go on, Meatball, get out of here!"

The dog ignored him. Meatball adored Kate and she had no doubt if she told the dog to get lost, he would trot happily away to cause mayhem somewhere else. An idea began to form in her mind.

"Where's the guard?" she peered past TJ, barely able to see the figure illuminated in the moonlight at the far end of the line. She turned back to TJ. "Turn around. Or close your eyes. Or both."

He turned slowly so his back was to her. "Katie? What are you doing?"

She didn't answer. With quick fingers, she unbuttoned her – TJ's – shirt and slipped out of it, then unhooked her bra and tugged it off. The warm night air was like a lover's caress on her bare skin and she firmly put the thought of Greg's hands out of her mind. Hastily she pulled the shirt back on and buttoned it.

"Clear," she said. TJ turned back, scanned her up and down and saw what she was holding. Like the rest of the evening's ensemble, the bra was borrowed. Kate's foundation garments ran to the practical, but this one was a confection of lace and silk.

TJ looked completely baffled. Kate offered the silky garment for Meatball's inspection. The dog was a raving kleptomaniac when it came to women's underthings. More than one of the nurses had come back from a beach rendezvous missing lingerie that had been cast aside, only to be purloined while its owner was otherwise occupied.

The terrier wagged his tail and opened his mouth to grab the garment. Kate snatched it back at the last second.

"Do you want this?" she asked. The dog's tail thumped faster. "Do you really want it?" Meatball leaped around in an ecstasy of joy. Kate caught him by the collar and pointed him toward the figure in the distance. "If you chase that bad man, you can have it," she whispered. "Go. Sic 'em!"

Meatball lowered his head and barreled into the darkness like a torpedo through a launch tube. A moment later, a volley of barks erupted, punctuated by yelling. Snarling was followed by the distinct sound of fabric ripping.

"How did you do that?" TJ asked.

Kate shrugged. "He likes me. We have an understanding."

TJ paused. "Do you hear that? It's the all clear signal."

Kate listened. The yelling and barking faded into the darkness, replaced by a new sound. The jukebox in the Sheep Pen had been cranked up and Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" drifted on the night air. "_That's_ the all clear signal?" She shook her head in disbelief as the music's gentle lilt drifted through the base.

"Yepper."

"Thank God." Kate linked her arm through TJ's. "Walk me back to my tent so I can change clothes. Then I need a drink."

"Amen, sister," TJ said. "Um, Kate?" He stopped, effectively pulling her to a halt next to him.

"What?" Kate already knew what he was going to say. Distress was written all over the young pilot's face.

"You're not going to tell Pappy that I . . . you know . . ."

"Don't worry about it," she reassured him. "It was an act of sacrifice for the greater good. That guard would have known something was up if my lipstick and my hair were still perfect. Don't confess to a sin you didn't commit."

TJ looked relieved although still skeptical.

Safely back at her tent, Kate sent him on his way and changed into a T-shirt and shorts with welcome relief. Dresses and heels were a nice look but every time she wore them, she inevitably ended up in the middle of some Black Sheep-induced chaos. With nimble fingers, she worked her long curls into a braid and was tying the laces on her boots when Meatball trotted into the tent. He wore an air of canine vindication, his muzzle split in a wide grin.

"Did you sic 'em?" The terrier woofed. "Did you make him run away?" Meatball woofed again. "And now you've come to claim your prize?" A final woof and this time the dog spun in a happy circle. There was no telling how far he'd chased the fourth guard. Kate wondered if the dog had put him up a tree.

She solemnly handed him the bra. He took it and trotted out. She watched him go and wondered how she was going to explain its loss to its owner, along with everything else.

Kate picked up TJ's shirt and headed for the Sheep Pen. She had the feeling this wasn't over yet.

\- To be continued -


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Vella La Cava**

**VMF 214 HQ**

**2300 hours**

Kate stepped back from the wash rack and wiped her face with the hem of her T-shirt. She didn't need a mirror to know the carefully applied makeup Dee had insisted on earlier that evening was gone. Her stockings and garters were in French's plane. Her dress was at the bottom of Micklin's sludge tank. Her bra had been collected by a bull terrier for services rendered and would likely never be seen again. She thought her track record for destroying clothes had hit an all-time high. At this rate, none of the girls at the hospital would ever loan her anything again. The only person getting their clothes back tonight was TJ.

She paused briefly on the steps to the Sheep Pen, then opened the door and stepped inside. Greg, Casey, French and TJ studied their poker hands at a table. Smoke from French's cigar wreathed the air above them. Bragg and Boyle hurled darts with reckless intensity. The younger of the first-shift Navy guards was passed out face down on a table by the wall. Jim sat by the bar, an icepack on his jaw and a thundercloud over his head. The room looked normal enough but she felt the electric undercurrent of victory humming just under the surface.

She let the door slap shut behind her. The boys looked up in unison and greeted her with a casual chorus of "Hey, Katie" and "Hi, Kate" as if none of them had been up to anything unusual that evening.

"Hey, Cameron. Glad you could join us." Greg looked her up and down and raised his eyebrows. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been on Jim's arm, dressed to kill. Now she was back in shorts and a T-shirt, face scrubbed clean and hair in a loose braid. He nodded at an empty chair. "Want Casey to deal you in?"

"Not a chance." Kate narrowed her eyes. She was a notoriously poor poker player even when she had all her wits about her. After the events of the last few hours, her wits were scattered to the wind. All she wanted was a drink.

"How was your date?" Greg's tone indicated he already knew what happened. Or at least part of it. TJ looked determinedly anywhere but at Greg. Kate noticed he wouldn't meet her eyes, either.

"My date didn't go quite like I expected," she said. From his chair, Jim mumbled something about choosing his dates more carefully in the future. TJ laughed, then quickly sobered as Jim glared at him. Kate wondered how much information had been exchanged between the boys before she got there.

She locked eyes with Greg and didn't try to hide the sense of triumph surging through her. She'd done a whole lot more than serve as distracting arm candy tonight and she wasn't about to let him forget it. She stood, eyes locked on his, and saw the hint of a smile curve the corners of his mouth. She responded in kind, challenging him silently to read her mind. The power of that smile flowed through her until she felt her bones hum with the promise of it. With an effort, she broke his gaze and headed toward the bar. On her way past the table, she tossed TJ's shirt back to him.

"Thanks for a good time tonight," she said and winked.

TJ shot a guilty glance at Greg, then a triumphant one at Jim, before settling on a look of mild panic. "What happens on the line, stays on the line," he muttered.

As she passed Jim, Kate winced in sympathy.

"Sorry," she said, trying to express concern without emphasizing his failure. His over-confidence in taking out the second guard was what launched her crazed end run in the first place. It was entirely Jim's fault she'd spent the evening committing assault, hiding in planes, fake making out with TJ and setting Meatball after Navy personnel but she decided not to point that out. The longer she was embedded with the Black Sheep, the more apparent it was becoming that this type of behavior was merely viewed as business as usual.

"Not your fault, darlin'," Jim said, adjusting the ice pack on his bruised jaw. "I hear you evened the score."

"Something like that."

"Pappy, we're taking her to Espritos next time we get R and R. She'd come in damned handy if we have to set the boys in that starched white wonderland straight," Jim said.

"You are _not_ dragging me into any more of your escapades," Kate said to the room in general and went to the bar. Anderson pulled an unlabeled bottle from under the counter and handed her a glass. She eyed the bottle suspiciously.

"That better not be rum," she said.

"Not to fear," Anderson replied. "That foul swill will ne'er again darken our door."

She poured, inhaling the whisky fumes appreciatively as the amber liquid splashed into the glass. "Where'd you get this?"

"Greg released a few bottles of his private stock for a celebration tonight. Thanks to you and Jim, well, mostly thanks to you, we got those crates back on the truck without the Navy being any the wiser."

Kate thought the Navy was going to be a whole lot to the wiser when those crates arrived on New Caledonia but kept it to herself. There was no sense borrowing trouble when there always seemed to be so much of it free for taking.

She took a swallow of whisky and closed her eyes, letting the smoky flavor swirl through her senses. For the first time since that afternoon, she thought she might be able to relax. She felt, rather than heard, someone step up next to her and knew who it was even before a warm hand squeezed her shoulder.

"You all right?" Greg asked.

Kate turned toward him. "What do you think?"

"I think you saved our butts tonight." He looked her up and down. "What happened to the dress?"

"Don't ask."

His laugh was genuine. When she tipped back the contents of her glass, he refilled it before she could ask.

"I deserve more than that," she said. "There are a lot of things I enjoy doing in the dark but being chased around by the Navy isn't one of them."

Anderson discreetly faded away. Greg lowered his voice. "Name your price, sweetheart, you're worth it."

Kate gave him a smoldering look and wondered about the wisdom of pursuing this conversation with the entire squadron nonchalantly pretending they weren't listening. Before she could say anything, French looked out the window and said, "Heads up, incoming guard."

"Alone?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," French confirmed. "It's one of the second shift boys. He looks like he's been drug through a hedge backward."

"He won't recognize me," Kate said quickly. "I didn't look anything like this the last time he saw me." She refrained from elaborating on what she _had_ looked like, half-dressed and half-panicked in TJ's arms.

"I'm not taking that chance." Greg jerked a thumb toward her darkroom. "Go." She started for the door, then turned back and grabbed the bottle.

"I need company!" she said defensively.

Greg slid back into his chair at the poker table and Kate pulled the darkroom door shut behind her just as boots stomped into the room. An angry voice barked, "Major Boyington! What the hell has been going on around here tonight?"

Kate uncorked the bottle, took a drink and leaned against the wall, listening. Faint shafts of light from the outer room sliced through cracks in the boards. There hadn't been time to pull the inner blackout curtain that would have plunged the room into total darkness and she didn't dare do it now. The heavy fabric made a distinct rustling sound when moved.

"I'm teaching these gentlemen how to give me their money. What's it look like?" Greg's voice was reasonable but she knew him well enough to detect the hint of annoyance.

"You know what I'm talking about." Boots stomped across the floor, then came to an abrupt halt. "What's Jackson doing in here?"

Kate deduced Jackson must be the guard passed out on the table, the unfortunate recipient of too much Black Sheep hospitality.

"I asked him to come in for a friendly drink. Didn't know he couldn't hold his liquor," Greg said. "Why don't you haul him out of here, he's not doing much for the decor."

"Right," the guard snarled. "That would leave all the supplies on that truck sitting unguarded right under your noses, wouldn't it? How stupid do I look?"

Silence ensued and Kate thought the entire squadron deserved medals for keeping their mouths shut. When Greg finally spoke, his tone was one of casual indifference. "If you haven't noticed, we're on an island. There's no one here now who hasn't been here for the last week and those supplies haven't disappeared yet, have they?"

More silence. Kate imagined the guard working through this logic.

Greg continued. "So how about you get your buddy out of here before he starts to stink up the place. Then you can come back and sit on that truck like a broody hen. We promise not to steal you blind in the next hour, right boys?"

A chorus of agreement sounded from the assembled Black Sheep.

Talk about your promises in the dark, Kate thought as she pressed her lips together to contain a laugh. Every single person in the room, with the exception of Guard Four, knew Micklin and Hutch had the ground crew working double time to install the new parts. By the time they were missed, they'd be untraceable.

The guard grumbled something about foxes and hen houses. From Kate's vantage point it sounded like he was leaving, then the boots stopped. He wasn't ready to let the evening go yet.

"You. You're the one who slugged Calhoun."

Her heart leaped in her chest but she could tell he was addressing Jim.

"Yeah." Jim's voice was muffled by the ice pack. "What about it?"

"Get up. I'm taking you into custody for assault."

A stony silence followed in which Jim clearly did not get up. Then Greg's voice sounded like cut steel. "I have it on good authority my exec didn't throw the first punch. He was acting in self-defense."

"You got a witness who'll testify to that?"

"I've got 15 of them."

Kate heard the scrape of chairs being pushed back and imagined the boys closing ranks around Gutterman. Individually, the Black Sheep were charmingly irresistible. Collectively, in a unified front on either the ground or in the air, they were terrifying.

The guard re-evaluated his strategy. "Fine. I won't press charges but I need that nurse's name. The one that cracked Calhoun over the head. There will be an investigation."

"I ain't givin' you my girl's name. I do that and I'll never get laid," Jim said with sulky defiance.

Kate pressed her knuckles against her mouth to keep from laughing.

"You might as well give her up," the guard wheedled. "She may be a looker but I don't think you're going to score with her, not from what Calhoun said."

"Nah. She'll come around." Jim chuckled. "She was so pissed at that gorilla for punching me, she knocked him clean out, now didn't she? If that ain't a sign of true love, I dunno what is."

Kate bit a knuckle. God bless Gutterman. He was loyal to a fault.

The guard gave up on that line of questioning and went in another direction.

"You know you got a feral dog running around the base?"

There was an exchange of inquisitive comments, indicating that no indeed, they did not know that.

"It came at me out of nowhere. Look. Shredded my pants, tried to bite my leg. Damn thing's probably got the rabies."

Silence indicated the Black Sheep did not appear to be overly sympathetic.

"Hope Meatball's okay," Boyle deadpanned.

The guard gave up. "Fine. Let's go, Jackson, up and at 'em." The unfortunate Jackson regained consciousness long enough to voice the opinion he wanted just one more drink before he left. There was the sound of grunting as the guard drug him, still protesting, across the floor. The screen door slammed and a jeep roared to life, then faded in the distance.

A knock sounded softly on the darkroom door. "Cameron?"

Kate set down the bottle of Scotch and unlocked the door. Greg stepped through and closed it behind him. When she reached for the light switch, he stopped her hand. They stood in the semi-darkness, neither speaking.

"Thank you for everything tonight," he said quietly and pulled her into his arms. Kate buried her face against his chest, inhaling tobacco smoke and the underlying scent of his skin. He was everything that was right in her life. Being linked to him and his mission in this war, to these men on this island base, gave her a sense of purpose like nothing she'd never experienced.

"You're welcome," she whispered against his shirt. "But don't ever ask me to do anything like that again."

She felt, rather than heard, him laugh.

"I won't," he said. "I'll ask you to do something else."

Kate pulled her head back. "And what makes you so sure I'll do it? You come up with these crazy-ass schemes and you think I'll just –"

Greg pushed her up against the wall and took her mouth with his, effectively silencing her protests. She fought it for about two seconds before yielding. His hands were hot as they edged under the thin jersey of the T-shirt, his touch sending good sense straight out the window.

Kate surrendered fully, invited the kiss to deepen and let him take her someplace far, far away from the one-step-ahead-of-disaster lifestyle she'd grown accustomed to with the Black Sheep. She lost herself in the slow descent into pleasure, reveling in anticipation of what might lie ahead. Greg cradled her hips, pulled her against him, then slid his hands under her shirt to circle her bare waist. She bit back a moan, knowing what those hands were capable of. When he teased at the button of her shorts, she wrenched herself back to something resembling coherence.

"No," she managed. "Not here. Just. Stop."

His reply was a whisper against her skin. "Is that really what you want, Katie?" His hands did not stop.

He never called her by her first name except during their most intimate moments and the sound of it on his lips left her reeling. With a mental wrench that was almost painful in its intensity, she forced herself to address the reality of their situation. She and Greg were separated only by a thin wall from 15 boys who were not above eavesdropping. Greg clearly wasn't bothered by this but she clung desperately to a fading sense of propriety. This was _not_ happening in her darkroom.

"Yes. No. Oh, damn it. Would you stop that!"

With a final lingering kiss, he stepped back. The shafts of light slanting through the wall cast his face in shadow but she could see the sensual curve of his mouth.

"You're hard to please." His voice was whisky rough and the sound of it sent tremors of possibility crashing through her.

She wasn't and he knew it. Her body responded to his with an intensity that had haunted her dreams long before the first time they made love. He knew the curves of her body, silk and heat under his hands, and how easily he could take her to the edge of oblivion and suspend her there. How many times had she called his name, aching for release, begging him to drive her over the edge and explode into a thousand sparkling shards with her.

Kate swallowed hard in the semi-darkness. She knew her emotions were chasing across her face like clouds before an incoming storm front. She was breathless, half-annoyed at him for what he'd started, half-annoyed at herself for not throwing caution to the wind and letting him finish it.

No. She shared entirely too many aspects of her personal life with the Black Sheep already. This was not going to be one of them.

When she didn't answer, Greg tipped her face to his and kissed her until she felt like she glowed with the heat of it.

"Let's go," he said when their lips parted.

"Where?"

"My tent."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she started. If they resumed this course of action in his tent, the degree of privacy afforded them would be only moderately better. At least she wouldn't have to walk the gauntlet of the Sheep Pen afterward but there'd be no end to the quiet smirks at mess in the morning.

"I didn't say we were staying there."

* * *

The squadron went up at 0600 the next morning. From her vantage point near the line, Kate thought the birds had never sounded better. The base vibrated with the lethal growl of the Pratt and Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engines as the planes lifted into a scarlet stained dawn sky.

_Red sky at morning, sailors take warning._ Was there a similar adage for pilots, she wondered. She joined Hutch and Micklin, who watched the departing planes with looks of smug satisfaction.

"Did you get all the new parts installed?" she asked and smothered a yawn. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep last night. She and Greg had gone to his tent to pick up a few necessities but true to his word, they had not stayed there. The beach had offered all the privacy she had wished for. She could still feel the heat of his body against her, inside her, and was grateful for the cool morning breeze on her face.

"Yepper," Hutch returned. "Finished the last overhaul just before Pappy took off."

"Them college boys better bring my planes back in one piece," Micklin snarled. "It'd be a damned waste of all them shiny new parts if they was to get splashed."

Kate swallowed a smile. All three of them knew with the improved performance from their birds, the Black Sheep would be virtually unstoppable. She headed for the mess and coffee. She _really_ hadn't gotten much sleep last night. To be fair, neither had Greg.

* * *

The boys hadn't returned from their morning patrol when a C-47 Lockheed transport lumbered down onto the La Cava airstrip. After a shower and infusion of coffee, Kate was back on the line, reviewing facts for a story she was working on with Hutch. She gathered her notebook and camera and disappeared behind the mechanics' shed as the sputtering whine of the transport's engines cycled down.

The familiar cargo truck bounced across the airstrip and backed up to the big plane. Four guards got out. Guard One moved with the misery of the hung over. He squinted in the bright sunshine, wincing at every step as if his head might detonate with the impact. Guard Two was little better, although Kate knew he'd achieved the same degree of headache without the pleasure of getting gloriously drunk first. From her hiding spot, she voiced a silent apology. Physical violence really wasn't her thing but, well, desperate times and all that.

Guard Three carried himself with the paranoid air of someone who expects to be set upon and reduced to his comrades' circumstances at any moment. Guard Four marched around to the back of the truck with the grim focus of someone who wanted nothing more than to put this particular stretch of real estate behind him and pretend he'd never been here. His right pants leg was shredded below the knee.

Micklin wasted no time yelling at them. Kate caught snatches of "Git this gooney bird off my airstrip!" and "I got a full squadron due back any minute now and them boys takes priority over some pencil pusher on Espritos who don't know New Georgia from New Caledonia!"

The guards hastily unloaded the truck as Micklin continued to harangue them. Kate edged as close to the corner of the shed as she dared while staying out of sight. She listened for any tell-tale clinking that might suggest the crates contained something other than the CARBURETORS and CLAMPS/HOSES that were stenciled on their sides. The boys had done a good job padding the glass bottles. The only sounds were of the guards' groaning and Micklin's continued berating. Kate thought he was yelling so loudly the men wouldn't have heard anything unusual anyway.

After the last crate was loaded, the guards wasted no time joining them on the C-47. Kate sagged in relief as the plane taxied down the airstrip and climbed back into the sky.

She watched it vanish into the clouds and wondered what level of shit was going to hit the fan when those crates arrived on New Caledonia.

\- To be continued -


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Vella La Cava**

**VMF 214 HQ**

**Three days after the heist**

**0900**

**The Sheep Pen**

The whine of an approaching plane brought Kate's head up from the photos scattered over the table in front of her. She glanced at her watch and frowned. The Black Sheep weren't due back from the morning's mission yet. If one of the boys had run into trouble and headed home early, Greg would have paired him with another pilot for the return trip so he didn't have to fly orphan. Besides, the plane wasn't a Corsair, although she couldn't tell what it was. Unlike the boys, who could instantly identify aircraft only by the sound of the engine, it took her a little longer.

It was a Stinson L-5 Sentinel, she finally decided, and that meant one of two things. Either Colonel Thomas Lard or General Thomas Moore was about to set down. If it was the latter, she was in the clear. Moore knew her true identity but seemed to consider her just another aspect of Greg's unorthodox style of command. He had proven as willing to fly high cover for her as he was for Greg.

Moore was relatively easy to manage. Kate hesitated to use the word _manipulate_, since that implied the person doing the manipulating – her – had their own agenda. In this case, though, it was the truth. Her agenda was unapologetically two-fold: to give Greg and the boys all the support they could get through the press and not to get yanked out of the 214 in the process. It helped that Moore had an eye for the female form and Kate wasn't above using that to her advantage.

If it was Lard, she needed to get the hell out of Dodge. She'd met Lard once before while borrowing the identity of a Navy nurse. It wouldn't do for him to find Lieutenant Laura Halvorson in the Sheep Pen, bare feet propped up on the table and a mug of coffee at her elbow while sorting photos for her editor back in the States.

Hastily, she shoved her feet back into her boots and left the building. Using the tents for cover, she slipped through the base, coming out near the edge of the airstrip. With a sigh of relief, she saw General Moore's familiar bulk climb out of the L-5. Definitely better than Lard but she shared Greg's view that the brass belonged on Espritos with their noses out of Black Sheep business. There was only one thing that could have brought Moore to La Cava.

Kate did a quick inventory of her person. Boots. Cut-off shorts. Sleeveless white work shirt. Shamelessly, she unfastened another button on her shirt and tied up her shirt tails to reveal the flat planes of her midriff. The morning was warm, after all. Then she walked across the end of the airstrip.

"Good morning, General!" she called. "How are you?"

Moore pulled the Mae West over his head and tossed it back into the plane. "Better, now that you're here to greet me. It's good to see you again, Miss Cameron."

From the fast once over he gave her, Kate knew exactly how good he thought it was to see her. She allowed herself a slow smile. She'd discovered upon her first meeting with the general that if she flirted just enough to keep the man off balance, he tended to go easier on Greg for whatever real or imagined infractions he'd committed.

"Let me be the first to tell you, that piece you did about the skirmish over Ulithi a few weeks back was a fine piece of writing," Moore said. "The 214 certainly shone that day."

"Thank you, sir, they certainly did. What brings you all the way out here?" Lard usually dealt with the 214's minor infractions by screaming at Greg over a secure line, while Casey found new ways to disconnect the scrambler. Business of a more serious nature meant Greg got a summons to Espritos. Moore showing up in here in person could mean a lot of things and Kate was sure none of them were good.

"I came to see Boyington." Moore's dark eyes studied her and Kate did her best to look like she couldn't imagine why. He didn't seem inclined to expound and she didn't push.

"They're out on morning patrol." Although she felt that was fairly obvious, given that only a few planes remained parked along the dusty strip bordering the island's interior, she thought it only polite to confirm it.

"That's all right. I wanted to talk to your – um, Greg's – line chief first."

Kate felt a bit of reassurance in spite of her unease at Moore's presence. He clearly considered her part of the 214 and if push came to shove, that could play to her advantage. Or it could drag her down with the rest of the squadron if the fat hit the fire.

Andy Micklin met them with a scowl on his face and a cigar clamped between his teeth. His shirt was grease stained and his salute was obligatory. He glanced from Kate to Moore and back. Kate kept her face as neutral as possible, which was taking every bit of concentration she could muster. They both knew why Moore was here and it had Arabella rum written all over it.

The general took in the clutter of the maintenance area. A 13-foot prop, minus the rest of the plane, leaned precariously against a nearby palm. One set of landing gear, its mate conspicuously missing, rested against the shed, just another piece of war-time detritus among a collection of broken airplane parts waiting to be repurposed.

"You need something, General, or you just come to see the sights?" Micklin asked brusquely. "I ain't got all day to stand around jawin'."

Moore finished his visual tour. "How are your planes flying these days, Sergeant?"

Micklin puffed up slightly at the acknowledgement of _his_ planes but studied Moore with a suspicious scowl. "They're flyin' just fine, so long as them college boys stay behind the Zekes, not in front of 'em."

"Colonel Lard has led me to believe this squadron has a hard time putting 15 birds in the air."

Micklin snorted. "Only thing Lard knows how to fly is a desk. He wouldn't know a cylinder from a saddlebag." He looked at Moore and added, "Sir."

Kate coughed to hide a laugh and bent to pet Meatball, who had sauntered up to join them.

"I've tracked Greg's recent requisition sheets," Moore said. "Lord only knows why but Lard denies half of the things he asks for. How is it you're keeping those birds in the air when they're flying on high-mileage parts?"

Kate's heart nearly stopped but Micklin dove into the breach without hesitation.

"You ever hear of good old-fashioned Yankee ingenuity." The way he said it wasn't a question. "I got me the best mechanics in the Southwest Pacific on this here line. We been doing so much with so little for so long, now we're qualified to do anything with nothing. We're rebuilding stuff that ain't even been invented yet! You think not gittin' fancy new parts is gonna keep them boys down?" He transferred his cigar to the other side of his mouth and chomped on it.

Moore opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. The trademark growl of Corsair engines heralded the squadron's return.

"All back," Hutch yelled from nearby as he lowered the field glasses.

The first planes broke low over the ring of volcanic rock that edged the northern tip of the island and soon they were dropping onto the strip, props spinning up a dust storm as they taxied into position.

Kate realized with sudden clarity the landing was unusually mundane. There was no mad scramble by the ground crew to drag out fire extinguishers. Nothing was on fire. Nothing was even smoking. The engines purred with the fine-tuned precision rarely found after the planes had been pushed to their limits in the heat of battle. Nothing choked or sputtered. The foreward canopies were free of oil. There was no intermittent catch of misfiring cylinders. Landing gear performed obediently and no one skidded off the strip in a dramatic belly landing.

All in all, things were exactly what one might expect from skilled pilots flying aircraft that had been maintained in compliance with the manufacturer's suggestions. Kate was pretty sure Chance Vought never dreamed the degree of punishment his bent-wing birds would sustain when he designed the first prototype in 1939.

She knew Greg was aware of Moore's presence as he leaped down off the wing. Even if he hadn't seen the L-5 parked on the side of the strip, the general projected an air of power that rivaled even the cloud of indomitable high spirits surrounding the Black Sheep as they celebrated another successful mission.

Greg rounded the nose of his plane and she saw his eyes linger on the extra opened button on her blouse and the tied up shirt tails. Recent events aside, Kate never dressed to draw men's attention. That was just asking for trouble on this base and they both knew it. He raised an eyebrow. She nodded imperceptibly toward Moore and saw understanding flash through Greg's eyes.

"How the hell are ya, General?" He pulled off his helmet and slapped Moore on the back. "Come have a drink with us."

Moore glared at him. "This isn't a social call, Greg. And it's before noon."

"Come on, it's five o'clock somewhere. We just flew a smoking hot mission and my boys are thirsty. You can have lemonade if you want." Greg gave Kate a quick wink. She knew if he got Moore into the Sheep Pen and poured a few drinks into him, whatever interrogation the general was about to administer would be cushioned.

"Your birds are running fine." Moore jerked a thumb toward the line. "I don't think I've ever seen this squadron set down without at least one belching smoke. It's almost like they've been rebuilt recently."

"Best mechanics in the theatre," Greg said without missing a beat. "Micklin and Hutch are miracle workers."

Kate slipped her arm through the general's. "Come in out of sun, sir. It's too dreadfully hot to stand around here."

"So tell me how it is you're still here with these pirates, Miss Cameron," Moore asked as she steered him toward the Sheep Pen. "Your writing is exceptional but to be honest, I didn't think you'd last long on this rock."

"The island air agrees with me." Kate flashed him her best smile.

"That ain't all that agrees with her," Jim said behind them. She ignored him and if Moore heard, he didn't acknowledge it.

* * *

The Sheep Pen's shady interior and lazily turning ceiling fans provided a respite from the heat. General Moore wasted no time getting down to business. He and Greg had barely sat down before he announced, "I got a memo from VMF 227 yesterday."

"The boys on New Caledonia?" Greg asked. He didn't seem troubled by this news but Kate's stomach clenched. "Bet they appreciated finally getting those new parts after their little detour here."

"That's just it, Greg. We need to talk about that little detour." Moore's features looked like a thunderhead building on the horizon.

By contrast, Greg's eyes were guileless and his dimples only added to his air of schoolboy innocence. Kate bit the inside of her lip and willed herself to stay calm. Her inability to conceal her emotions made her the worst poker player on the island and every one of the Black Sheep had capitalized on it. If Moore took a hard look at her, he'd know immediately she was hiding something. Greg, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. She didn't doubt for a minute he'd seen this possibility coming and had a handy explanation up his sleeve. Sitting here watching it play out was worse than hiding in French's plane while Hutch chatted up the guard.

"I'll get a bottle," she beamed. "General, you'll join in toasting the boys' success today, won't you? Then you two can talk shop all you like."

She felt both Greg's and Moore's eyes on her as she crossed the room. Deliberately, she stood on her toes and leaned over the bar to reach one of the bottles of Scotch tucked underneath. She kicked one leg up behind her and made a show of balancing precipitously. Casey eased up next to her.

"How'm I doing?" she whispered. "Is Moore cross-eyed yet?"

Casey glanced across the room and shook his head, grinning. "Not yet. Give him a little more."

Kate kicked off the floor with both feet and leaned completely over the bar, scissoring her legs to put the tanned curves of her bare thighs and calves on display.

"That did it," Casey said quietly. "Those missing parts are the last thing on his mind now."

"Perfect." Kate pulled a bottle out from under the counter and dropped back to her feet. She snagged four glasses – Jim had joined Greg and Moore at the table and she needed to stay to offset the overdose of Y chromosomes – and made her way back across the room. She set the glasses down and poured a generous two fingers of whisky into each. "To the 214 and its continuing success," she said. "Slainte."

Moore sipped his drink, then wrenched his eyes off Kate and seemed to drag himself mentally back to the reason he was there. Turning to Greg, said, "What were we talking about?"

"Those crates of supplies, sir. You were going to tell me what the 227 found when they opened them. I'm guessing it must have been something spectacular because you wouldn't fly out here to tell me about distributor caps and carburetors."

Moore narrowed his eyes. "It was spectacular all right. It was 32 one-gallon jugs of rum from a distillery on Arabella."

"Really?" Greg looked genuinely surprised. "Why would central supply ship a combat unit jugs of rum?"

"They didn't!" Moore roared. "Somewhere along the line, some bunch of screwballs took the parts out and refilled the crates."

"With all due respect, sir, Lard had those crates so heavily guarded none of the screwballs around here could get near them."

Moore glared. "I have no idea what happened out here but the guards assigned to those parts came back to Espritos in rough shape. One was hung over for two days and another has a concussion. He keeps talking about a girl in a flowered dress who cracked him over the head and vanished into the night." He slanted a look at Kate.

"I left all my dresses stateside when I took this posting," she said, hoping she looked properly offended at the implication.

Moore shifted his focus back to Greg. "I don't know what you're playing at but Lard is fuming mad. The CO at the 227 chewed his ass after they opened those crates."

"I'm not sure why Lard's ass is any of my concern -," Greg began.

Moore cut him off. "It's your concern because those crates spent a week on this island with your boys. That's about seven days too long. Don't sit there and expect me to believe you had nothing to do with this."

Greg did exactly that. Kate was reminded, again, why he was virtually unbeatable at the poker table. His eyes had gone a hard, steel blue and she knew he wasn't going to give an inch, no matter how much Moore blustered. The general matched it, glaring daggers in return.

They reminded her of two dogs, Kate thought, snarling and testing one another, trying to decide whether one should back down or launch into a full-scale fight. She took the opportunity to refill the men's glasses, playing for time. She glanced around the table. Moore looked like a volcano ready to blow. Jim's usual arrogant scowl had slipped a little but Greg looked frighteningly self-assured. Kate reminded herself to breathe.

Greg sipped his drink. "Sir, when those crates initially arrived on Espritos from Pearl, did anyone open them to verify the contents?"

Moore's temper ground down a notch.

"No," he said. "It was just days before that Ulithi campaign and supply scrambled to get them shipped out. That's probably why they got sent to the New Georgia chain instead of New Caledonia in the first place."

Greg leaned back in his chair. "And after they left La Cava, they were laid over on Rendova for two days due to weather before being sent on to the 227. You know what those boys on Rendova are like, sir. I wouldn't trust them with the till at a church bake sale."

Moore took a long pull on his drink. Greg's face was impassive. Kate swore she could smell the testosterone swirling around the table as the two men held eye contact. If Greg had shown the slightest sign of weakness, Moore would have been on him in a snap but his voice was unwavering, his gaze steady.

"It seems to me, there's no way to prove when or where the exchange happened," Greg continued, swirling the contents of his glass as if this was no more than a casual conversation in the officers' club. "And laying this on the 214's door isn't going to play well in the stateside press."

He didn't look at Kate. She kept her eyes focused on the bottle of Scotch, wondering what would happen if she just took it and walked out. Overhead, the ceiling fans hummed quietly.

"So you're on the record that you don't know how that rum ended up in those crates?" Moore finally asked.

Greg lifted his glass, never taking his eyes off Moore. "We don't drink rum at the 214. We drink Scotch."

Kate swallowed. He wasn't flat out lying but he hadn't answered the general's question, either.

Moore turned to Jim. "What do you have to say, Captain?"

Jim's normal arrogant confidence rose to the occasion. "I agree with Pappy. Those parts could have been heisted anywhere between Pearl and Rendova. You'd best tell them boys on New Caledonia to mix up a little jungle juice with that rum and throw themselves a party."

Moore scowled, then looked at Kate. "I don't suppose you know anything about this, Miss Cameron? Given how . . . close . . . you are to this unit?"

He was looking for a chink in the armor and she knew it. She lifted her glass and forced herself to sip slowly. "This unit has the best Scotch in the Southwest Pacific, General. With all due respect, these boys aren't going to waste their time with rum from a cut-rate distillery on Arabella."

Moore's dark eyes bored into hers. Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs but she didn't flinch. She didn't blink or bite her lip or twist her hair or any of the other half dozen tells Greg and the boys delighted in pointing out.

"That's your story and your sticking to it?" Moore asked.

"That's the truth and I'm sticking to it," she said coolly. Well. It _was_ the truth. As far as it went. The 214 had the best Scotch in the theatre. She forced her breathing to stay even, kept her body language relaxed, as if preventing the court martial of the best squadron in the theatre was something she did every day. She could feel Greg studying her and thought he was smiling but she didn't dare glance his direction.

Moore's shoulders dropped in defeat and he muttered, "Damn it. You're as bad as he is." Then louder, he said, "All right. I told Lard I'd come over here and follow up. And I did." He finished his drink. He looked at Kate again. "By the way, that piece you did on TJ Wiley a few weeks ago?" He chuckled. "That one gave Lard fits. Keep up the good work."

* * *

Greg wrapped his arm around her waist as they watched the L-5 carrying Moore back to Espritos lift into the sky and vanish.

"You keep bluffing like that, sweetheart, and we'll make a decent poker player out of you yet," he said.

She rounded on him. "You are impossible! That took 10 years off my life. I'm a war correspondent, not a . . . a . . . covert ops agent! Now I'm lying to generals!" she sputtered.

"You're good at it. God, I love watching you work."

She didn't know if he meant she was good at being a correspondent or the skullduggery that went hand-in-hand with life at the 214.

Before she could ask for a clarification, Greg brushed her hair back and kissed the side of her neck. In spite of her self-declared decree against public displays of affection, Kate didn't pull away. After all, the line was deserted, the mechanics taking a break from the midday sun. Greg's lips moved upward, brushing the skin behind her ear then lowered to edge along her jaw. She was one step from tangling her hands in his hair and pulling his mouth onto hers when behind them, Micklin let out an infuriated yell.

"What the hell is this?"

Greg and Kate spun to see him lift a sodden mass of fabric out of the sludge tank. It hung, dripping, at the end of a pole like a sleek animal pelt.

"Damn college boys! Bringing the nurses out here and foolin' around. I catch the one who dumped some poor girl's dress in my tank and I'll set him straight."

Greg looked at her and raised his eyebrows in sudden understanding.

"Don't ask," Kate said, turning back toward the base. "Just keep walking and don't look back."

* * *

**2000 hours**

Greg put the jeep in neutral and turned off the ignition. They were parked on one of the highest spots on the island, a natural plateau overlooking the ocean. Below them, the sun splashed the Pacific with gold and streaked the sky with coral and scarlet as it lowered toward the horizon.

Kate had been here once before. She remembered that night clearly – the taste of Scotch on Greg's lips, the delicious heat of his hands exploring her body. . . and Casey driving right into the middle of it with a message from Colonel Lard. Turned out the colonel was pitching a world class fit about her writing and had called Greg on the misguided assumption he could do something about it. He'd done something about it all right.

She kicked off her boots and stretched her legs out to prop her bare feet on the dash.

"Damn. Are you trying to distract me?" Greg ran an index finger down the top of her thigh.

"Is it working?" Kate crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back to bask in the warmth of the setting sun. She knew full well the effect her legs had on him.

It had been four days since Moore's visit, a full week since the boys liberated the shipment of parts meant for the Navy. The Black Sheep had flown a spectacular series of missions, including taking out a flattop off the coast of Kahili, during which Anderson had made ace. Kate's story about the squadron's supply line issues had hit the stateside papers and as a result, Greg's requisitions were being filled grudgingly by Colonel Lard, at least for the time being. Lard was probably as mad at the Black Sheep as ever but unable to find any evidence of wrong-doing, had quit threatening to take the unit down. Greg and Casey finessed a tangled series of deals that replenished the 214's Scotch supply. The unit was flush with success on all fronts.

Kate pushed a windblown curl off her face. "Why did you drag me up here?"

"Drag?" Greg chuckled. "You came willingly enough, Cameron." He handed her one of the recently acquired bottles. "Thought you'd like to get out of that fishbowl for a while." He nodded his head toward the base.

Kate tipped the bottle up and took an appreciative drink. She loved the Black Sheep like brothers. Brothers who made a pain in the ass of themselves in so many ways she'd quit counting. Privacy was unheard of with that lot. She and Greg had been interrupted so often they'd almost – but not quite – given up on any any expression of affection beyond the slightest look or touch.

"Thanks," she said. "You read my mind."

They sat in companionable silence, sharing the bottle back and forth and watching the sun melt into the ocean on the horizon.

"You never told me what else happened that night after you went John Wayne on that guard when he knocked Jim out."

Kate shifted to face him. His dark hair was windblown, his face burnished by the setting sun. Her belly did a slow, lazy spiral at the heat in those eyes. She'd seen that look before. He wanted more than just a recounting of her side of Operation Moonlight Serenade.

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes. All I know is French is flying with a garter belt hanging off his control panel, Hutch keeps telling me I'm the luckiest guy on this rock and TJ won't look me in the eye."

Kate took a long swallow and lowered the bottle. "The garters are Laura Halvorson's. She loaned me the outfit for the evening. I, uh, shed them and my stockings while I was hiding in Don's bird."

"Mmm-hmm." Greg didn't seem surprised by this, as if Kate peeling off undergarments in fighter planes was an everyday occurance. "Meatball showed up with an exceptionally nice bra the other day. I didn't have the heart to take it away from him. Laura's, too?"

"White silk, pink lace trim?"

"Near as I could tell. You know Meatball, he was carrying it around like a trophy. He didn't intend to let anyone have it."

"Yeah, that's Laura's. I gave it to him for chasing the final guard off the line."

"You sic'd my dog on the Navy?"

"Yepper." She didn't say any more, daring him to ask. He did.

"Which brings me back to my original question. What happened –"

"You ask too many questions." Kate cut him off, then hesitated. He wouldn't care one bit about her creative problem solving with TJ, but if he thought for a minute she enjoyed this caliber of off-the-record mayhem, there was no telling what he'd ask her to do next. That evening had been a headlong flight from one absurd scenario to the next and she was in no hurry to repeat it. She had to admit, though, when she'd stepped into the Sheep Pen afterward, the sense of heady euphoria at her part in the unit's victory had been a powerful thing.

"It's complicated," she finally managed.

"Hutch told me you scrambled into that cockpit faster than some of the boys."

"Did he tell you I had my dress around my waist when I did it?" she asked drily. She knew the mechanic had gotten a prime eye full of the very silk stockings and garters she'd shed minutes later.

Greg laughed. "No. But he used the word _exquisite_."

Kate rolled her eyes. "That's not generally in Hutch's vocabulary."

"It is now." Greg tickled the hollow behind her knee and she squirmed away, laughing in protest. "And I agree with him."

"There was nothing for it. That dress of Laura's fit like a second skin."

"What happened after that? We never saw hide nor hair of the last guard and an hour after that, you showed up in the Sheep Pen, looking like you single-handedly won the war and damned-well wanted me to know it." He brushed the hair back from her face and his fingers lingered along her jaw. When he spoke, his voice lowered to the rough timbre that left her unable to move. "Lord, Katie, when you walked in and looked at me like that, I could have taken you right there."

She took a deep breath and thought back to what followed in the darkroom.

"You almost did," she managed.

"What do you mean, almost?" Greg's voice wrapped her like silk on her skin. "I remember later that night. There was nothing _almost_ about it."

Kate knew heat was coloring her cheeks but held his gaze defiantly. "No. There wasn't." Their loving in a small, sheltered cove on the beach had been a shared triumph with nothing held back. She tried to steer the conversation into safer waters, then decided there was no such thing where Greg was involved.

"What happened after you got out of French's bird?" he asked.

Kate was grateful to get the conversation back on solid ground. "TJ showed up, we hid from the guard, I dropped my dress in Micklin's tank –"

"Wait." Greg folded his arms behind his head and leaned back. "If that dress came off in the mechanic's shed, what were you wearing after that?" He looked intrigued, as if this were merely an angle of a puzzle he hadn't considered.

She told him about TJ and their masquerade dalliance to fool the guard. He chucked.

"You kissed TJ? How was that?"

"He enjoyed it more than I did."

"I bet. No wonder the boy's been practically saluting every time he sees me."

"You might want to pull him aside and tell him you know about what happened and you're not going to kill him for it. Otherwise he's going to spend the rest of this war saluting you."

"It's kinda nice to have one of those clowns who knows how to salute," he mused. "What happened after you took your clothes off and started kissing men at random?"

"I was not kissing men at random!" Kate aimed a slap at him, which he dodged easily and caught her wrist. She struggled, not because she wanted to get away but more because of the principal of the thing. It would never do to look too easy. When it became clear he wasn't going to turn her loose, she pinned him with a glare. "Let go of me." She didn't expect him to listen, which was good because he didn't.

"You're gorgeous when you're mad."

"I'm not mad. Exactly."

"Then what are you?" He didn't let go of her wrist. "Exactly?"

She studied his face. The flicker of humor in those blue eyes tempered the square set of his jaw. "Every time I get involved with you, the plan never goes according to plan."

"You should have thought about that before you got involved with me." The hint of a smile played across his lips.

"I did."

His smile was her undoing. She was losing control and they both knew it.

"You say that like it's a problem."

"I – it's – but –"

Greg tipped her head back and kissed her. It was a slow, deep kiss that plundered her mind as well as her body. When they parted, Kate felt like he'd ignited a fire under her skin.

She said nothing, knowing he could read the her smoldering look and hear her quickened breath. His eyes traveled lazily down her body, then he opened another button on her blouse and traced his index finger from her throat to the top of her breasts. His touch was a rush of heat, drawing the flame inside her higher. She let herself be swept up in his unarguable power until she glowed with it.

"Don't start something you can't finish," she whispered.

"I finish everything I start, Katie," Greg said, and pulled her into his arms.

THE END

Thank you for reading. I very much appreciate your comments and reviews. It's always a pleasure to escape to the South Pacific to see what the Black Sheep are doing. It had been a while since I'd been there and it felt good to go back. Thanks for going with me.


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